Once an enemy, always an enemy.

As a member of TF141 in the British SAS, that is what Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish was always trained to think— that once somebody had fired a gun with the intent to kill for the other side, they were irredeemable.

Until Laswell informed the Task Force that a former soldier of Makarov was going to be assigned to their team.

Price had been extremely reluctant about the situation, but he had at least tried to set a good example for his men. Ghost, however, had fumed. Gaz and Roach were both hesitant, but willing to try it out.

But Soap?

Well, he didn’t know what to think.

The reasons why you had defected were classified, and were to remain so. All that the 141 was allowed to know was that you had fled to Britain and begged for asylum, which you were granted, on the condition that you would willingly surrender all information that you had on Makarov.

And now, nearly two months later, after having endured interrogations and grueling training to ensure that your loyalty was now to the British military, and after being assigned a new identity, your plane was touching down on the tarmac of the 141’s home base.

Soap had agreed to be there to meet you, to show you the ropes.

His eyes narrow hatefully as he sees you step out of the plane.

Communist bastard.

He shakes his head sharply, snapping the thought from his mind.

Och, dinnae think that. He’s one o’ us nae. Ah’ve got tae at least give the lad a chance.

Still, his hands are clenched tightly as he watches you being escorted toward by two guards. He blinks.

Jesus feckin’ Christ. He’s a right looker, innhe?

Soap feels his cheeks flush pink. He forces that thought down just as quickly as the first. He was determined to put aside his own prejudice — and attraction, apparently — in order to appraise you as he would any other new recruit.

As you reach him, he shoves his hand out, his Scottish brogue thick. “Sergeant John MacTavish, but ‘round here, people call me Soap.”